


first light

by northofkites



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, Multi, Romance, Violence, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24990415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northofkites/pseuds/northofkites
Summary: The Devildom’s full of demons who want you dead, brothers desperate to own you, and a dark magic that threatens to swallow you whole.But you're going to do more than just survive this year. You're going to make it your own.[short chapters. weekly+ updates]
Relationships: Asmodeus (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Beelzebub (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Leviathan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 42
Kudos: 165





	1. the hurt

You are cold, always cold.

Before you were dropped into the heart of hell, you would’ve said that the hell is a burning basin, boiling over with fire and the regrets of sinners.

Instead you find black and blue palaces, filled with insatiable, inscrutable devils. Food you can barely stomach. Beautiful demons with hard eyes. And inexplicably, _school lessons._

And yet somehow, the worst part of hell is the _cold_ , and nothing you do shakes the ice from your veins.

Your uniform always smells faintly of embers because you spend every night curled next to the fireplace, so close that the knees of your stockings darken from the close lick of the flames.

You spend the first week running your hand along window panes and doorways when your protectors aren't watching, wondering if you can Persephone your way out of hell by spring.

_—_

“That angel’s been starin' at ya.”

You look up from your newt steak and catch Simeon’s blue gaze across the cafeteria.

“Cheerful bastard. Angels, ya just can’t trust ‘em." Mammon sticks his tongue out at Simeon, who smiles and waves.

"You were an angel once," you say, hugging your arms around your uniform. Even the cafeteria, steamy with cauldrons and the press of students hurrying to eat before the bell, is _cold_. Mammon bumps his shoulder into yours.

"Yeah, so ya can believe me on that. I would know. Not that demons're any better, but angels are twice as bad.”

"So you’re four times as bad then?" Mammon stutters something, but doesn’t finish as a shadow falls over you both.

Simeon stands in front of you. He puts his tray down next to yours and takes the seat next to you at the circular table, sweeping his starry cloak away from the bench so he can sit comfortably. His plate is piled high with something that looks like glazed yams. No newt steak for the angels _—_ you’ve noticed that they never eat meat, a quality you find truly endearing in your current predicament.

"Hello,” Simeon says. "It's good to finally see you out here. I heard you weren't well your first week. Better now?" Even his voice is songbird beautiful, and you can't help but offer him a smile and a nod.

“Whaddya want?” Mammon grumbles.

Simeon leans in towards you, a white bundle in his black-gloved hands.

“It’s for you.” You glance into his bright, gentle eyes before you take the bundle and hold it up. It’s a sweater _—_ a long, lofty confection of a sweater, with endlessly soft ripples. You aren't sure what it's made of, but it smells slightly of sugar.

The angel politely ignores the tears in your eyes as you pull it over your uniform.

It’s far too big. It swallows your frame. It’s perfect.

"Hang in there," Simeon whispers against the curve of your ear. He leaves as suddenly as he came. The demons part for him, the crowd unzipping in either fear or respect before swallowing him again.

_—_

You don’t even see the little demon that attacks you.

All you remember is the hot nail of pain that jabs through your leg. You shriek, nearly knocking down the library's entire section on revenants, and the little demon squeaks and squishes itself into an air vent before you can even say, _why?_

“It’s one of Bel _—_ it’s one of my brother’s. They’ve been actin’ up lately.” Mammon kneels, trying to grab the critter’s legs, but it’s gone too far into the pipes.

You pull up the edge of your skirt to reveal a line of blood traveling down your upper thigh. Mammon’s face is strangely red as he inspects the puncture.

“It’s _—_ it ain’t too bad.”

His throat bobs as he brings his finger up through the blood, rubbing away the drip. You notice that the little claws sank right through the wool of your uniform, but Simeon’s sweater is unscathed. Mammon looks up at you, and you find the expression on his face unreadable.

“You’re alright, aren’t ya?”

Are you? Even if that’s concern swimming in his blue-gold eyes, your anger swells your throat shut and you don’t reply.

Mammon presses his thumb to the cut. Eventually the blood stops, but the hurt doesn’t go away.

_—_

The Devildom trees knock against your window in the storm, as if you need reminding that the world outside is hostile.

You draw the drapes. You lock the door. You crouch on the rug and let the fireplace toast your knees, though you're careful to keep your angelic sweater away from the flame.

You slide your headphones over your ears, but don't turn the music on.

You drift. And you plan.

Here is a lesson that you don’t need RAD to teach you: you are cold, but yours is the cold of steel, waiting to transform. Waiting for the forge. The fight rises in you, and this you know: steel always finds fire, in the end.


	2. offering

In the early days of your stay, you find comfort at Solomon’s side. For all his knowledge and might, Solomon is so wonderfully _human_. There are no tricks to his body. No horns, no shaking wings or slashing tail. No arcane markings spill across his neck or chest, spelling shortcut to power. And he doesn't want to eat your flesh, drink your soul, or dance in your blood, which is more than you can say about most of your classmates.

If you’re honest, you kind of like Solomon. He shows up where he wants all dressed like midnight, beaming with his troublemaker’s smile. Like today.

It's four o'clock in the ever-evening, and you're tucked away in the school's greenhouse for Pyrology. You’re supposed to be making some kind of demonic topiary, which you will burn in offering to Aamon. If the elder lord of flame was a good one you probably wouldn't be in hell—but now you have a sharp object and a new way to work out your frustration. You've just started beheading a bush of white flowers with your shears when Solomon's gold-tipped boots stop in front of you.

“Those are rare, you know. What’d the roses do to you?” 

“I have allergies,” you mumble. You lower the shears as Solomon crouches down to your level. 

“You’re so stubborn about not fitting in.” 

You skirt your gaze away from his starlight eyes. "Don't see why I should. Unless someone can give me an answer about why I'm here—something better than for a _demon prince's writing assignment_."

Solomon gently takes the shears from you. "Looking for meaning in chaos is pointless. It's far more satisfying to make your own meaning. What do you want this year to mean?”

The sorcerer tugs up his sleeves and begins to carefully trim away at the mess you made, easing the leaves into a pyramid shape. You blink at the loping lines of demonic text on his forearms, some cleanly circled and some rough-edged like bite marks up his arm.

"Doesn’t matter what I think if I don’t live ‘til the end of the year,” you finally reply. “Especially since everyone keeps reminding me how weak I am."

“Talk to your demons, then. Demons protect what belongs to them.”

“I don’t want to be _owned._ ” You glance again at the marks that circle the slender line of Solomon's wrist. Yes, you’re fairly certain that those are names. “No offense...?”

“None taken," he laughs, planting the shears blade-down into the dirt. "But there’s more than one direction to belonging, you know.” 

You watch as Solomon jabs his forefinger on the thorn of one of your roses. He flicks a drop of his blood at the crown of the pyramid. For a moment, it's a ruby spinning dizzily in the air—and then it balloons into an ornament of fire, grasping the top of the topiary.

"Would you like my help?" You look warily at the sorcerer, but he only has eyes for the flame.

“Is there a catch?” you ask. Solomon is quiet for a minute, the crackling of the fire the only conversation between you.

 _"In the order of things, I wish to be a moon,_ " Solomon recites. “ _To swing my stony heart around the light of another. Cup and water, flower and stone, heaven and hell—only through another can one become sublime.”_

“Now you’re being a showoff about avoiding the question.”

Solomon eases closer to you. The more you look, the more you wonder how you ever thought him normal. Between his witchlight eyes and the curling fragrance of burning roses, you feel light-headed and strange.

"No catch. I just find your inclusion here interesting. Lucifer says that your selection for RAD was random. I simply wish to see if that's all there is to it. What do you think?"

The boughs are beginning to tumble in smoky surrender. You shake your head.

"Consider this my oath to you. If you truly want to leave, I can assure you safe passage. But give me—no, give yourself three weeks before you answer. 

“You don't speak Caevernus, so you couldn't know, but the demons—not your demons—whisper in the halls right in front of you. They're betting on when you'll die. I wager that you won’t. Show me what you can do.”

And just like that, you’re seized by anger again. Especially for this enigma dressed as a friend, with his flint eyes snowcapped in pale lashes and his trickster's smile. Your hands tighten on the stems, the roses’ fangs drawing the red out of you.

"Fine. But you'll also give me lessons in magic on the side."

"And why would I do that?"

You stand, smiling, and dash your roses onto Aamon's pyre. 

"Because _you_ want this year to be interesting."

_"Oi!"_

The greenhouse door bangs open. Mammon is storming through a thorny mesh of screaming fig towards you, his eyes locked on the sorcerer. Solomon reaches out and you clasp his hand, pulling him up. You’re surprised by the wet heat of his hand. Blood meets blood, eye meets eye.

"To an interesting year, then," says Solomon. "Ah. One last thing."

When you open your palm, the blood is gone, but three foil-wrapped chocolates sit on your lifeline. 

"They're nicer than you think, those brothers. You're not dead yet, right? It's not because no one's trying. Still—if you drop from starvation, you’ll cause trouble for them."

_"You listenin' to me?"_

"Three weeks,” Solomon says. He leaves your hand full of sweetness and pain as he bows. "It's a promise."

"Whaddya think you're doing? This ain't even your class!" Mammon grabs Solomon by the shoulders and spins him, pushing him towards the greenhouse doors.

Solomon grins at you and puts a finger to lips, as if to say, _a secret between us mortals._

\--

Three weeks, then. In three weeks you can’t expect to become much wiser or more powerful, but maybe you can set aside your bitterness and be a little kinder.

You give one of your chocolates to Beel. The kitchen is a mess and he's elbow deep in dishwater, so you unwrap it from the foil and place it on his waiting tongue. 

His smile warms your heart if not your ever-chilled body.

"You haven't eaten much since you got here," he comments, his back to you. "Are you sure you shouldn't eat those yourself?"

"I'll adjust,” you say, more certainly than you feel. “Everything is just… different."

Beel looks at you over his shoulder. He’s a study in elemental beauty, from his fiery hair to the fascinating way dusky purple flirts with electric orchid in his eyes.

"Bad different or good different?" he asks.

"I don't know yet." He blinks, the purple stirs and weighs down the pink. 

"Alright," he says. Turning away, he stacks an enormous wok onto the metal drying rack and grabs a stack of plates with lacy filigree. "If you want, you can stay until I’m done and I'll find something you want to eat."

"Tomorrow," you say. “I promise.” Not wanting to leave on a cold note, you touch his arm before you go. 

You don't see how he stops working once you’re gone. He touches the spot where you touched him, the purple tide in his eyes washing to lily pink.

\--

You give one of your chocolates to Satan. He's sitting at the piano in the conservatory, replacing yellowed keys with fresh white slabs that you hope aren't made of bone. 

There's a stack of classic jazz scores resting in a horn basket on top of the piano. You study them briefly before you place your gift on Holiday's _What a Little Moonlight Can Do_. 

"A good song. Do you know the piano part?"

When a minute has trickled past and he’s still looking down, still prying up keys with a long green claw, you move on. You’ve been warned plenty about the Avatar of Wrath, and you don’t want to sink in the sea of his stormy moods.

You don't see Satan's fingers close on the purple-wrapped sweet, or his eyes follow you after you go.

\--

You try to give one of your chocolates to Levi but it won't fit under the door. When you try to lure him out of the room, he yells at you through the door.

"I don't want to eat anything covered in normie germs!"

"Chocolate summoned by the only sorcerer in hell is as not-normie as it gets." 

You swear you can feel his silent resentment bubbling right through the door.

You go. Had you stood there for an hour, you would’ve seen the door crack open and yellow eyes graze the empty ground in disappointment.

\--

You give the last of your chocolates to Lucifer.

You wanted to give it to Mammon or Asmo, who are a little more approachable, but no room or doorway reveals them. They’re both probably off cavorting with witches, you reason, in their very different ways. So you climb the steps to Lucifer's study. You don’t have to knock. The moment your foot lands on the top stair, you hear the eldest say, “Enter.”

Lucifer’s study is lined with thousands of books. Above, the chandelier crumples the light into hazy golden spikes. Ahead is Lucifer. His wide desk is empty but for a neat stack of papers and a single rose blooming furiously in a crystal vase.

You draw closer to Lucifer himself, his pen poised above a report as he regards you.

 _No,_ some primal part of your brain screams. 

The other brothers wear their human-ness so much better. It is much easier to play pretend among them, like you are not a sheep among the wolves.

You stop six feet away.

“This is the first time you have sought me out on your own. I’m pleased to see you.”

You nod. You’re pleased that your legs haven’t given out.

"How are you finding things here in the Devildom?" His eyes flick over your sweater, your closed fist.

“Good,” you say. Better to cut the word from the ribbon of your thoughts before you can say too much. 

Because you've seen it—you've seen the way Lucifer can stand utterly still. You suspect he might not need to breathe. You see how his shadow is long, too long for his height. 

Lucifer terrifies you because either he can't play human well enough to fool you, or he doesn't care enough to try. Worse yet, your attraction to him is merciless, and you can’t look away from his full mouth or his smoldering eyes without wondering just how warm he could keep you.

“Did you bring something for me?”

You nod again. He flicks you forward with his fingers and you move closer still. No, you’re pulled. Compelled—the same dangerous instinct that draws moths to flame. 

You put the chocolate onto the tips of his outstretched, gloved fingers.

You’re suddenly reminded of the first gift you gave to a teacher, when you were young enough to have pigtails and scraped knees. You wonder, absurdly, if you should have brought more, like a bouquet—but Lucifer isn’t Aamon and no matter what you’re offering you don't feel you have a chance at winning his game.

Say something. You have to say _something._

“It’s hazelnut,” you say. “It would be good with tea. Or biscuits, if you have that sort of thing.”

Lucifer turns his head slightly to regard you. He is smiling. “Thank you,” he says. "I have earl grey right here. Would you like to stay for a cup?"

But you’re already halfway gone, almost to the door, trying to escape both Lucifer and the longing rising in you.

\--

You lay in bed and stare up through the boughs of the tree, blanketed in its forked shadow. Fairy lights dip and sway, making a slow spectacle of light and shadow across the ceiling.

 _In the order of things, I wish to be a moon_ , Solomon had said, as roses unraveled to the flames.

And you? What do you wish to be?

There is a scraping sound above. You spot a Little Demon with blue eyes and blue horns crawling through the branches. It chirps at you sleepily, and you wonder if it’s the same one that tasted your blood, if the edge of its claws would be a perfect fit against your scar. 

It’s close. You lick your lips. You reach up and brush the belly of the beast. 

It's soft as a dandelion, and its body gives to your touch. The demon stays at your fingertips for a few minutes, bobbing just a little, before moving for high ground, and you fall asleep to its strange song. 

\--

In the morning when you take your place at the breakfast table, there's a wrapped piece of candy on your plate. You try to catch the eyes of the demon brothers, but no one will look at you, or fess up to who put it there. 

You take your time eating it, and the taste of cherry lingers on your tongue for hours after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obangye’s sexy [solomon](https://twitter.com/ObAngye/status/1244769605106704385) (nsfw?) is the only canon i acknowledge 
> 
> how’re you doin today? as always, your kudos and comments put the stars in my sky. <3


	3. start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaaaa remember when I said these chapters wouldn’t be longer than 2k? Oh well. More than double the release time, more than double the word count. I hope you enjoy!

You wear a ring on the fourth finger of your left hand. To Mammon, the metal smells cheap, but has the aura of something precious. Sometimes he catches you staring off into the fireplace, your thumb making lazy laps around the gold. 

Once, he sees you lift the halo of it to your lips. You bite the metal, your eyes half-closed, and Mammon imagines the cold taste of it against the heat of your mouth. The way your tongue and your teeth touch it in sweet distraction—he thinks about it for days.

You have not taken the ring off since you came to the Devildom. Until one night, you do. 

The hallways are quiet and Mammon is not where he's supposed to be. He’s slipping away to your room, because tonight sleep won't find him until he finds you. Besides, Lucifer will be angry if you’re up wandering. If he must, Mammon will keep you company. Even talk to you a bit, if you’re so lonely that you can’t do without—that’s how magnanimous he is.

Your door’s cracked open. He pushes it, slow—it’s an art, convincing these old doors not to complain—and leans into the dark.

"Psst. You awake, human?"

From where he’s standing, Mammon can’t see you properly. So he eases in, pushing the door almost-closed with his heel, until just a thread of light steals in from the hall. 

There. You’re sleeping on your back, your arm slung over your face. Your fingers are still wrapped up, a gift from your little adventure in the garden with Solomon. Your puncture wounds still smell like sacred sap and magic, but whatever that piece of shit sorcerer did to you, you just mumble, _it's_ _fine, don't worry, Mammon, please._

If it’s so _fine,_ why do you have even _more_ bandages than before? 

Mammon’s sure they’re new. Otherwise he would have seen them at breakfast when you reached for the urn of coffee or when you leaned down to tie your boots. He knows he’s good at taking care of you—even if you’re bad, apparently, at taking care of yourself.

How could one human _be_ so careless? Mammon growls softly, riffling through his hair. You’re going to stumble to your death in no time, and the second eldest knows where Lucifer’s blame, and his whip, will fall.

Mammon moves to shake you awake. Each bruise is a syllable in a story he’s too frustrated to read. You owe him answers, and he’s not going to get strung up for a decade because you can’t stop getting hurt for five minutes.

And then he sees that the fourth finger of your left hand is all taped up. And there, laying next to you on the bed, is a taunting wink of gold. 

Need seizes Mammon. Temptation is a precipice, and the Avatar of Greed has never hesitated to jump.

One of your braids has slipped from your head wrap and fallen over your mouth. Mammon moves it gently with a single claw, and then reaches with practiced quiet to pick up the ring. It _is_ cheap. The gold flexes slightly under his appraising grip. Words, now faded, were once carved on the inner rim. But oh, there it is. There's that _feeling_ . That _rush._

Mammon slowly lifts the ring to his lips. Puts his fang into the metal. It’s soft, it’s no good. But he wants it. He wonders who your half-closed eyes see in the flame. A brother? A friend? A lover? Whoever it is, the token is filled with the stunning _yes_ of your love. Something like this belongs to him. You’re so careless, after all. _It must’ve slipped off in class, or maybe a Little D. ran off with it._ He should slip it on his finger. He should stash it in his vault. It would be easy. So easy. Of course he's going to do it.

You cough. 

You roll in your sleep, uncovering your face. And Mammon sees you. Your neck is visible, and it is taut, a tension that stretches unbroken from your brow to your ankles. The long sweater gets caught between your bare thighs and you sigh, your injured fingers flexing. 

You make a pitiful little sound in your sleep, and Mammon feels something bend in him, soft as that cheap gold you wear.

There is space beside you on the bed. He could plant his elbows there, pet your hair until you slumber more deeply. How long has it been since he's comforted anyone? He looks at his claws, tries to retract his claws, tries to make his claws small and dull as a human's, and is almost surprised to find the ring still loosely gracing his knuckle.

And there’s a feeling, another rush, but one he doesn’t recognize.

Mammon carefully lowers the ring to fill the spot beside you. 

The hollow little thing won't keep you warm. But maybe it helps. Maybe _he’s_ helped. He raises up the comforter to cover you.

"‘Night," Mammon mumbles, and wonders how empty hands could leave his heart feeling satisfied.

\--

The bell rings, and you’re off.

Usually the end of the school day means escaping Mammon, but today he pretends not to see you, red-faced, eyes stuck to the blackboard.

Solomon’s already waiting when you get to the Curses classroom, cool and cross-legged on the teacher’s desk with _Errors of Necromancy_ open across his lap. His slim gold glasses flash when he looks up at you.

"You’re early," he says, rising gracefully. 

Solomon's already chalked the walls with runes of illusion. You give him your hand, and he pulls you into his protective circle. 

"Mammon?" Solomon asks. He puts the book down on the desk and uncorks a vial, dipping his finger in the silver ink. His cape is already neatly folded across the seat, waiting.

"Acting weirder than usual. But even on days when I lose him, he usually waits outside the east wing."

Solomon hums in assent as he leans close to you, painting a rune on your throat with his inked finger. You are almost used to the intimacy of him watching you breathe, only drawing when you inhale. 

You can feel the enchantment slipping down your skin, silking you in a haze of weightlessness. Solomon’s magic is like the swell of the sea. The press of the tide, claiming you one moment, only to return you the next, scolding and wanting. Contradictory, like its master. 

"Like what you see?" he says as you stare, and you turn away from his smile as much as you can, embarrassed. 

"Are you sure Mammon doesn’t know what we’re doing?" 

"As far as the demons are concerned, this classroom holds just one exchange student, practicing his more dangerous spells. As long as you don’t let him get too close, he won’t notice. I don’t leave my trace on you." You press back a flinch as Solomon’s uninked fingers rest lightly on your neck. On the other side, he gilds around the bruise that pools in the valley of your shoulder. Even without looking, you know he’s watching your face, not his script. But you offer nothing, and he doesn’t ask.

Finally, you feel the weight of his cape drape across your shoulders, and you tilt your head up so his deft fingers work can knot the velvet into place. 

"Look at me. The eyes are important," the sorcerer says, so you turn back to him. Solomon’s are clear and full of amusement as he threads his glasses over your ears.

"If your soul wasn't so shiny, I wouldn't have to work so hard to hide you like this." He examines you, finger crooked under his chin. “Mm. Perfect.”

You sigh and brush Solomon’s cape flat against your shoulders as you take your side of the circle. It carries the aroma of black pepper, carnations, vanilla—the scent you now associate with your patient defiance.

Solomon stands on the opposite side of the spell rink. He leans against the teacher’s desk, legs crossed, hands casually planted against the black marble. He doesn't need to ask if you're ready. You feel his _intent,_ the tidal force of his will. But this time there's no ebb in it, no beckoning. He pushes you, forcing you to slowly march back, or endure.

You endure.

Finding your magic, Solomon says, is about pain and luck. First, to be lucky enough to have magic at all, and second, to find the right calling from the vocabulary of your experiences. He calls this the star road: finding pistons of brightness in the dark.

You cast your mind back, trying to find a spiritual anchor—your father’s shadow, the purr of a tattoo needle, the trusting softness of your childhood cat. But there's no response. There never is.

Your aura bows to even the gentlest flex of his. It's like trying to catch a hurricane in a bedsheet. Six tries and you go knee-down at the edge of the circle, your face dripping with sweat.

"Dying on me already?"

Something icy touches your cheek. Solomon smiles as he presses a cheerful yellow can of soda to your face. 

"Sure," you mumble. "May as well upgrade from a visa to a permanent residency here." It’s probably a waste of magic to summon a Crush for you, but you drink deeply, gratefully. You pass it to him and he sips as well, the necromancy text floating in front of him. The showoff is still doing his homework while he spars with you. 

"I notice you're on the tight side today. Your gestures aren't wide enough." His eyes flick to the bandages on your arms and knees. "Are you sure you're alright?"

You grimace, pushing your sleeves down. "Let's take it from the top."

Still—it doesn’t matter if it’s elemancy, witchcraft, hexes, or chants—you've remained about as magical as a clod of dirt. When the can’s empty of soda and you’re empty of fight, you both stretch out on the stone classroom floor and watch the Devildom’s stars—or whatever they are—tick by in the frame of the window. You're starting to drift off when the sorcerer rolls onto his side, gracing you with that sly smile.

"You're doing well, you know," Solomon says.

You snort. "That's a generous interpretation."

"No, really. I think I’ve incinerated most of my pupils by this point."

You blink at him. "This is the part where you say ‘just kidding.’"

"So you've decided to stay," Solomon says instead. God, being powerful and a brat is such a combination.

"I have."

"You’re sure? Say the word and I'll take you back."

You’re sure it’s not that simple, or as cheap as a word. But how honest should you be? You twine your fingers over your heart and match his gaze.

"Solomon, I want to be in love."

For the first time, maybe, you’ve caught him truly off guard. His eyes widen and he sits up further on his elbows as he stares at you.

"Oh, sorry. Not like that," you say with a grin.

"That’s not very nice. Who taught you to lie like that?" Solomon sighs, head falling back on his crossed arms as you grin at him. 

"Um, _you_."

"Having a student was fun while it lasted. Alas," he says, lazily drawing the sign for _destruction_ in the air. You snatch his hand before the final swoop, and he smiles at you, as though proud you’ve discerned your own immolation. 

You realize that the pale hand in your own is the one that suffered the thorns, same as you. But Solomon’s hand is neat and unblemished, while yours is still wrapped.

"It wasn’t exactly a lie. When I was in high school I ran away from home," you say at last. "Just for a little while."

"You don’t seem the type."

"No? Well, I thought I had a voice like Whitney and I _definitely_ had a lot of attitude."

Solomon tilts his head towards you. "That I can see. Does this mean you're going to sing for me?"

You laugh. "Nah. I wasn’t… I’m not even _that_ good. But when you're young, you're bold, right? And everything can be forgiven." 

You grab the dangling tongue of your bandage and slowly unwind it. You have to maneuver it around your ring, but you manage to slip it down your arm. The bite of the thorns has left spotted scars, raised and glassy, like water droplets. You marvel at them for a minute before you speak again.

"One night when both of my parents were working, I bought a megabus ticket and rode into the city. Some idiot kid in my class said there would be an open audition for a show, and I thought, why not me?

"It was drizzling that night. The bus spat me out downtown. I remember stepping onto this big, electric boulevard full of strangers. I didn’t know anybody. I didn’t have a plan. My phone died, and I wandered around for an hour, but I couldn’t find the venue. I knew there were some clubs I could try to sing at too, but I didn't really know where they were. And then it started to _really_ rain, and I thought _damn._ The money in my wallet's so wet that even the ticket machine won't eat it."

You laugh at your old self, still touching your scars. Your body is incredible, really, the way it closes around the hurt and makes something new.

"Still, I was alive. So _alive,_ Christmas morning alive, first love alive. Was it happiness? Fear? The challenge? I don't know, and it doesn't matter, I guess. I let go _._ I found my spot in the storm. I put my back to this streetlight, and started singing. And while I was singing, the most incredible things revealed themselves to me. A man covered in flour dust came out of a pizzeria to listen, and stayed long enough that the rain washed him clean. An owl joined me for a duet. The thunder applauded. I kept singing even when I saw a ghost. 

"I must have sang for hours. When I rubbed my eyes and looked—morning light was glinting off the cars. There were three hundred wet dollars at my feet and an old dog too. We all had to wait for everything to dry off, that dog and I, before I could buy a ticket home and get yelled at by my mom.

"There'll are all gone now. Lolly—that's the dog—the dream, and the money, for sure. Just me and my attitude are still here."

You look at the sorcerer, who seems ageless as winter itself.

"But, Solomon," you say, "Don’t you think that this is that same electric stretch? That this is the storm? Do you think that when your back’s to the wall, you should just enjoy it and sing?"

Solomon thinks, _yes. That's it exactly._ He is watching your faraway eyes. You are like the windows of a house left open. Your contentedness, your anger, both have places at your table. And so does your curiosity. Solomon looks at the steeple you're making between your fingers. He wonders if he should be afraid of you, of what’s happening. But he knows he's lost feelings as direct and helpful as fear long ago. All he feels is delight.

"This place is full of wonders, big and small," you continue. "I used to be that way too. I want to know—what are those stars? What makes Luke’s tarts taste so good? And those brothers…"

You feel an edge of Solomon's magic shift, and as if shaking off a spell, you stop. Solomon's face is propped in his hand. He's staring at you intently, so seriously that you let a smile break across your face.

"Feel free to tell me I’m stupid anytime."

"Not at all. One should never throw away an opportunity for enlightenment. Though honestly, after I told you about pacts, I thought you would be more interested in the demons’ power."

"Yeah, chopping up my soul as a demon appetizer might actually make me stupid," you say, and then clap your hand over your mouth, remembering the cages of spellwork that run down Solomon's arms. 

"That was—I'm sorry. I-"

"No, no. It's an intriguing choice. I enjoy it when you surprise me." You search his eyes for a hint of anger, but his expression is as doggedly pleasant as always.

"What about you?" you ask carefully. "Is this where you want to be, Solomon?"

"A sorcerer always places themselves adjacent to power," he replies. 

"Told you all that and you've got nothing for me?"

"Oh? If you’re interested in me, I wouldn’t mind going out for a glass of Demonus some time."

You roll your eyes, a barb at the tip of your tongue, but antagonizing your mentor and only human ally in hell probably isn’t wise.

Instead you say, "Go with Asmodeus. Let him grab that ass and he'll keep you adjacent to all the power you need." Solomon laughs. Strict and secretive as he is, his laugh is a free and pretty thing.

"Alright, alright. Enough of that. You’re here to learn, aren’t you?"

Solomon lays back and takes your scar-speckled hand. With the other, he points to the window, and tells you what the strange stars are made of.

\--

You're aching, but you're full of joy. You're finally getting somewhere.

The steam bleaches the kitchen into soft colors of clay and teal. The voice on the radio murmurs to you in Caevernus. Now and then you catch words you actually know and murmur them back— _moon, red, my love._

Your education doesn’t end after class and Solomon's training, after all. That's why far past midnight, you're in the kitchen, glancing at your textbook as you sanctify a knife with tincture of sage. Your pockets are filled with seeds of rue, courtesy of your fast fingers in the Poisons class storeroom, and a satchel of salt purified from the Towering Sea, courtesy of a baking-obsessed angel.

You wipe your forehead and look at the next diagram. The potion looks perfect, glossy and red, but you can’t mess this part up, according to the ten warnings blaring across the page. Even basics like grains and fruits don’t play nice here. You've already sorted the berries into a rainbow of toxicity, from green with _mild sore throat_ to green-black, _poisoned for six generations forward and back._

You roll one of the devious little berries in your fingers, and hold it up over the wide maw of the cauldron.

"What are you making? It smells good."

You nearly tip the whole bottle of devil peppercorns into the cauldron. Beel is in the kitchen doorway. The firelight of the oven outlines him vividly as he stretches, fingertips gripping the door frame. He looks sleepy and ruffled at this hour, almost harmless, like a child out of bed. 

You try and ignore the way your heart knocks against your ribs, asking to let fear in.

"Just a little something for lunch. Tomorrow—today I guess—is gremlin egg salad in the cafeteria." 

"Yeah," he says, his voice full of pleasure. Then: "This is the first time you've cooked anything." Beel draws closer, looking at the spread on the table.

"I texted Lucifer and asked if I could make myself some food once everyone went to bed. Not only did he say yes, he was thoughtful enough to order me something that looks like fish." 

Lucifer's delivery includes a truly mysterious assortment of "human" foods: prunes, hummus, four apples, and six flan cups. The crowning glory of it is the maybe-snapper, all laid out on the counter on a bed of lemon slices. Aside from being bigger, redder, and toothier than anything you've seen, it's almost comforting to look at, almost normal.

Almost. You glance at the pot, then back at Beel.

He moves a little closer. You snap your textbook shut. Your school notes are splayed out everywhere, tumbled up with a fistful of moss, a row of empty vials, and an herbology tome. A frown is growing on the demon's face.

The voice radio angles into the quiet between you: _stay if you want me, stay if you don’t._

Beel's eyes slowly come to rest on you.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Then why does it smell like blood?"

You swallow. "Um. Well, to prepare the fish—"

"Like _human_ blood. Do you think I can't tell the difference?" 

"Beel..."

The word just hangs there, becoming a bridge between this moment and the next. The songstress on the radio moans a string of words that sound like a curse. The potion putters in your cauldron. The fish gapes at the scene. You tense. Beel tenses.

Everything after is just instinct. 

In half a second, Beel is across the kitchen, your wrist in his hand. You feel the faint sizzle of his demonic aura flickering around you both. 

Is he angry? Frightened? Or just _ravenous_? You don't know. You tighten your grip on the sage-blessed knife. You hadn’t prepared it for the brothers. You'd prepared it for the enemy you have yet to meet. But now there’s this moment, there’s a blank spot in the recipe, and you don’t know the next step. You have maybe seconds to convince Beelzebub not to eat you.

You're not strong, and perhaps you'll never be. But you've got attitude, and you can endure.

So you laugh. 

You let your hostility fall away. You let the fear slump out of you, let your shoulders fall as the knife falls from your fingers. And you raise your chest, taking a full breath so your voice can carry.

"What is it?" you say, looking up at Beel through your eyelashes. "If you’re hungry, I’ll make you something. Or is it this you want to see?"'

With your free hand, you pull up Simeon’s sweater to reveal the slender cut you made. Your blood still freshly beads the seam. Beel’s eyes stick to it and he shudders.

"I'm potion making, Beel. A potion of obstinate warding."

 _"Why?"_ The word sears, his eyes are still feverish. You wonder, for a moment, if you could try to fire off one of your toothless hexes before his teeth tear into your throat.

His eyes. _The eyes are important._ But they’re shadowed by his long hair.

You reach up, very slowly, and put your uncaptured hand against his angular cheek. You tilt his face down so that you can interrogate that stained glass gaze. If Lucifer is ember and shadow, then Beel is wildfire, radiant, a hunter without aim or abandon. His eyes, usually dizzy bright, are bruised over with purple. The pink has become a frenetic, vertical line, like a neon volcano spout. But there’s light in them yet, so you grab your chance.

"Someone is trying to hurt me," you say.

He blinks. "Who?"

"I don’t know. I thought it was my imagination. A heavy book moved to the edge of my locker shelf. A knife turned the wrong way in my chemistry set. Uncorked acid in my desk. But I'm sure of it. Just look at me," you say. "Beel, look."

And it’s true. Your arms and bare legs are spotted with constellations of bruises and scrapes, mishaps that you’ve realized are not mishaps at all. You nod to the pot bubbling away on the stove without breaking his gaze.

"With this I can paint wards on my locker, cauldrons, and desks. From what I read I could use ox blood, but fresh human blood works better, right?"

You let your hand drop. Beel grabs hold of his own wrist, letting go of yours, and something softer flutters across his features. The fever is broken. His eyes close, reddish lashes sharp against his pale skin. When they open the dawn and dusk are at peace.

"You don’t know who’s doing it?"

You shrug. "I don’t have friends or enemies here. Though everyone’s got a foot in the second category."

"You should have told Lucifer." Beel’s voice and posture ease, if only slightly. "He's already looking out for you. Asmo and Satan, too. What you're doing isn't safe."

_Because of the blood-letting? Or because of you?_

Instead you say, "Being here isn't very safe. But here I am."

Here you are. Your smile has yet to wane, though you’re suddenly exhausted. Looking into the jumping mirror of the potion’s surface, your face is drawn. Good sleep is as rare as sunlight down here.

"You have at least one friend," Beel says.

"I do?"

"The angels. The other human." You chuckle tiredly as you pick up the spoon and turn back to your potion.

"What about you, Beelzebub? Do you think we could be friends, someday?"

"Sure. You gave me chocolate." You can’t help but laugh at his strange sincerity, given that minutes ago he seemed like he was going to break you and slurp the marrow out of your bones.

"Let's toast, then. Not committing murder is step one of friendship." You hand him the flan cups, watching his eyes light up as he peels up the foil on five of them right away. He nods to the last one, and you open it yourself.

"You won’t tell Lucifer about the accidents, will you? Something tells me any investigation he does’ll end in blood. And I don't want to teach our classmates that I'm only dangerous because of you brothers." To punctuate your point, you pick up the knife put it back into the tincture.

He glances at you. "If that’s what you want."

"Cool. Here, hold out your hand. Like this."

You smack your palm against his, careful to avoid his claws. He pulls his hand back and looks at it, looks at you. 

He smiles.

It's barely a truce. But it's a start.

The potion lets out a strange whistle. The center's frozen into a hard black disk, leaving a bubbling mire around the edges. With a sigh, you put your head on the counter and watch it spoil.

"Thno thops." 

"What?" Beel swallows and tries again. 

"Snow drops," Beel says. He pulls up a stool for you, puts a second cauldron on the front burner. "Make a potion of diligent warding instead. No human blood needed. Watch."

The demon plucks buds from garlands laced under the cabinets and uncorks small bottles here and there, saying their names. You sit on the stool and watch.He moves slowly so you can follow along, and you commit the names to the arsenal of your memory.

And eventually, while the potion is settling, you sing along with the radio in a half-hummed, half-Caevernic tongue. The voice you’d lost comes back so easy, back from wherever it had eloped with your courage. Beel is listening, leaning on the counter, occasionally tapping the ladle in time.

Your accent's terrible, you're sure, and if this is a love song like you think it is, you doubt any listener could understand your heart. But it’s a start, and for now, that's all you need. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last two weeks of my life have been a total wrecking ball, but I'm finally FINISHED. This ended up SO much later (and SO much longer) than I had intended. Some of y'all are out here dropping like 10k words a week, I do not understand how you do it! 
> 
> Anyways, I appreciate everyone’s patience. Y’all have been so generous with your comments, bookmarks, subscribes, and kudos. Thank you as always for reading and commenting! I am so excited to nudge closer to the lil mystery at the heart of this thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Back at on my world-building bullshit in a new fandom. Though chapters will be longer from here on out, I don't think they'll be more than 2k. Both the canon and timeline are not very important in this story, so don't stress too much when things get rolling in a very different direction.
> 
> I truly love and live for your comments, so even if it's just a brief hi or hurrah, hit me up :)


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